


Unspoken

by iamthequeenofthehoneybadgers



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: M/M, Slow Build, like not snail slow build but like moderately slow build, two cuties with mad daddy issues and poor communication skills: the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthequeenofthehoneybadgers/pseuds/iamthequeenofthehoneybadgers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the time the Prince was a silk-swaddled bundle, a golden child toddling around in the freshly risen grandeur of Khanbaliq, he learned the art of hiding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First stab at fic writing in years, so forgive any weird syntax and grammar mistakes. Constructive criticism and cool facts about mongols are always welcomed.

     From the time the Prince was a silk-swaddled bundle, a golden child toddling around in the freshly risen grandeur of Khanbaliq, he learned the art of hiding.

 

     Any weaknesses inherent to his character, or any inevitable follies of youth, were hidden expertly from the public eye. Jingim could cloak any inconvenient feeling: anger, disgust, disinterest, in a smoothly delivered remark without thinking twice.

 

_A talent imbued to me by my mother. The Khan is more of an open book. Any obfuscation my father manages is from the unpredictable nature of his rampaging heart, and not by design._

 

     The prideful golden prince hated nothing more than making a mistake, because he knew the court and the khanate would remember any blunders he made until he was a gray old man. Wu Chen was the darkest dishonor on his golden name, with three fruitless wives a close second.

 

    His place in the Imperial succession was never questioned out loud, but it had never escaped Jingim’s notice the way that his uncles and cousins would eye him at his moments of weakness: the calculating look of a careful predator, weighing the right moment to strike. The Khanate was too sumptuous a prize for any man to not desire.

 

    These mortal errors hung above his head and creased Jingim’s brow and dampened his smile, at least in public. Only among his mother and favored wives did Jingim allow himself to slip off his heavy golden mask for a while. Every mistake made his situation even more precarious. And yet, here he stood, contemplating willingly making a mistake that would eclipse all of his others like the darkness swallowing the sun.

 

* * *

     Perhaps his biggest mistake was letting his guard down.

 

     The Latin’s first appearance couldn't have been less threatening. Kowtowing clumsily to the Khan, wide-eyed and bedraggled, Marco Polo seemed more a lost child than a worldly traveler. Especially after Niccolo bargained him off in exchange for his caravan’s passage, and hastily backed out of the court, imperial guards descending on his son like armored vultures. Jingim had seen longer negotiations over the price of livestock.

 

     He had watched the Latin attempt to quell his panic as he was gripped by guards and dragged from the room. His cloudy eyes betrayed him. He was deeply afraid.

 

     Surely that was the root of all this. What better did Prince Jingim know than how a father’s volatile will, and how it could baffle a son trying to prove his worth to him? No difference in culture or personality could shake this fundamental understanding Jingim had of Marco at this first moment.

 

 _By now, the Latin has surely has the same understanding of me,_ Jingim realized suddenly. The thought was oddly perturbing.

 

* * *

 

 

     It was quickly apparent to Jingim that the foreigner’s upbringing did not prepare him in the least for the gilded hornet’s nest of the khan’s court. The Latin’s face was an open book, despite his obvious attempts to conceal his bewildered state.

 

     Hundred-Eyes should have taught Marco on how to keep his gaze steady and his face stoic, even in the face of humiliation and alarm. Surely that was as essential as riding and fighting to the foreigner’s survival in a hostile court. But Marco’s eyes remained guileless and searching. He placed trust too easily, and kept quirking his pretty bowed lips, pouting like a child.

 

     How strange find a man so beautiful, but there was no other way to describe the Latin’s lush features, crowned by softly sweeping curls. His lidded eyes, soulful, as mutable as the sky.

 

      Any lies Marco told could be seen through in a heartbeat, even when he simply danced around the truth, or lied by omission. It had nearly doomed him on several occasions. It would either be the source of his sustained value to the khanate, or the cause of his demise.

 

* * *

 

     If Jingim was an expert liar, and Marco was a beacon of truth, perhaps friction between them was inevitable.

 

     If Marco’s revelations made things complicated for Jingim, but hiding the truth was impossible for Marco, perhaps Jingim should not blame Marco for his nature.

 

     If information was the only weapon the foreigner had in this alien court, the only thing that gave him an enduring value to the Khan, perhaps Jingim shouldn't blame Marco for trying to stay alive.

 

       And perhaps Jingim should have kept his temper and lashed out at the powerless foreigner. Foresight had never been his forte. Making truly astronomical mistakes and picking up the pieces afterward was his usual route. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot about this thing for a bit, but finally checked my non-school email and there were so many lovely comments that I had dash off another chapter! (I only replied to a few, but I read them ALL and y’all so sweet)
> 
> I am very busy with school these days, so I cannot promise rapid updates. However, I do have the next 2 chapters written out, so it’s not like I’m starting from absolute scratch. I hope that I can fire those off relatively soon, at least.
> 
> Constructive feedback is always encouraged. (Also, does anyone know the name of Jingim's wife?? Can't seem to find it and I feel quite bad about it)
> 
> Also my Marco Polo sideblog is http://the-endless-blue-sky.tumblr.com/, feel free to follow/chat with me there if you so wish!

   The first sign of this inconvenient affection appeared in the aftermath of Kaidu’s feast. Not the day of the feast, which was so full of his uncle’s insults that he hadn’t noticed the Latin except for when he stepped into the wrestling ring in his stead.

 

   He thought at first that Marco was showing off, but it was quickly clear that the slender man was no match for the brute strength the sport required. He made a few clever moves at first, but was soon shoved around like a rag doll. Khutulun intervened out of pity, dragging Marco’s winded body off the ground like he was a child that had stumbled in the dirt. Marco slunk away into Byamba’s shadow for the rest of the night. Fewer of the guests remembered his uncle’s incendiary comments after that spectacle, and through his sullen anger, Jingim was deeply grateful.

 

* * *

 

 

 

   The sun rose over the new day, bright and strong in the endless blue sky, and yet Jingim was still soured by yesterday’s events. His brooding was clearly apparent, and his wife did the best she could to distract him with court gossip. After some dry talk of marriage arrangements, she inched closer to Jingim. A humorous light danced in her dark shining eyes.

 

   “I’ve saved the most scandalous bit for last," She said softly, but with a scandalized vivacity in her tone. "Men come from far and wide and pay dearly for the chance to win the great warrior Khutulun, but it seems our new foreign pet had her last night for free, behind the tents.”

 

   Jingim turned sharply. “Are you sure?” Khutulun not being the prim virgin her father insisted she was to be was hardly a surprise. He had known her since they were both children, and he knew that Khutulun was an unstoppable force, throwing consequence to the wind and doing as she pleased.

 

   It was his cousin’s taste, rather than her transgression, that surprised him. He had always thought his cousin liked more red-blooded men. “Marco seems too gentle to make a conquest of the fierce Khutulun.”

 

   “Suyin says it was unmistakably the foreigner,” his wife murmured softly, “Nobody else looks like him, it is impossible for him to hide. And it was certainly Khutulun’s conquest, not the Latin’s. Suyin said that Khutulun took him wildly astride with her hand at his throat.”

 

   He muttered something in response, and turned away from her. His pulse was racing.

 

_He must look so lovely, that lovely pale skin that flushes so pink in the sun._

 

   Jingim steadied his hand, and cupped his wife’s cheek gently.  “I need to go. Council meeting,” he said with a carefully steadied voice, and kissed her forehead chastely.

 

_Roughly, in the dirt._

   He pulled his sword to his hip, tied it carefully, and walked out with measured steps.

 

 _Like the commonest whore._ The thought should have disgusted him. But the heat welling up in his throat was not disgust. 

   Instead of walking to the main hall of the court, Jingham found himself slinking into the chambers where his third wife usually resided. She was an early riser, and the elegant but spare room was empty. He slid the door shut, and leaned against it. His pulse was still racing, and his head felt light. He leaned a cheek against the cool wood of the door.

 

   Jingim realized suddenly that there was a sweet, familiar rush of blood, slight but unmistakable. To have this reaction caused by thoughts of the foreigner made Jingim recoil in horror. He desperately willed his mind to clear.

 

   A basin of water stood by the bed, and he rushed over to splash a little on his face. He thought of battle plans. He thought of the old beggars that roamed the city streets. He thought of the impossibly dry matters of last council meeting. 

 

   It took longer than Jingim would have wanted to steady his pulsing heart, but he eventually quelled his traitorous body without taking a hand to himself.

 

 _A passing thought. An irrational impulse of the body that every man has once in the while._ He was sure that he would shake it off. Princes did not waste their time with such nonsense. It was undignified. He had wives and concubines to take care of, he matters of state to attend to, wars to win,  sons to produce. Heirs to the throne of the mighty Khanate did not get flustered thinking of foolish men.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Denial is not a river in Egypt, Jingim


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a long chapter: I was going to break it up, but I think it flows better as one.

 

     Of course, as soon as Jingim managed to get Marco off his mind and return to some semblance of normalcy, the fool goes and gets bitten by a snake and dragged to death’s door.

 

     Jingim is agitated, but he hides it well. The court is oblivious. His wives notice an edge to his walk, and a clip in his voice, but say nothing.

 

     Only the piercing eyes of his mother see through him. She sees the Latin’s limp body being dragged to the healer’s, slack as a corpse, and she sees her son’s frantic thoughts behind his golden mask. One penetrating glance and a quirk of her lips conveys to Jingim that he is discovered.

 

_The Imperial Constort Chabi, mistress of masks, queen of secrets._

 

    Sometimes, Jingim thinks his mother sees everything that happens in Khambulaq, an omnipresent eye that guards their family. He knows the Khan wouldn’t have made it this far in life without her, the brain to his muscle, the compass to his ship.

 

     Strangely enough, the Empress doesn’t speak to him about the matter, but there is a conspiratorial look in her eye that Jingim doesn’t understand.

 

* * *

 

   The next day, his father delegates Jingim to check on the Latin’s health. As Jingim turns to leave, his mother gives him another inscrutable look and an amused half-smile. Jingim bristles uncomfortably under his robes. He doesn’t like his mother getting any delusions about the Latin’s effect on him. However, he knows he can’t bring this up to her. To speak of it aloud, even in denial, is to give the facetious idea credit. With great frustration, he walks off.

 

     He finds the Latin attempting to rise from his bed. Marco is pale, and covered with the bloody mouth-marks of leeches, and the strain of rising nearly bends him double. Jingim pushes him back down with a firm hand. The pale skin beneath his fingertips is clammy, and Marco trembles at the touch.

 

   “The Khan requests that I inquire as to the Latin’s health. Will he survive?” How strange, to talk about a man’s life or death as he watches. The silver-headed healer bowed in response, and Jingim couldn’t help a relieved smile slip. “Father will be most pleased.”

 

   “And the prince?” Hundred-Eyes said softly from the Latin’s bedside.

 

   Jingim turned his head to look at his old teacher, remembering the arduous training he had once undertaken with the man. The mysterious monk had the oddest sense of humor.

 

   “Without compassion, what is there to distinguish man from beasts?”

 

   The roundabout answer seemed to please Hundred-Eyes. His blind eyes crinkled in a smile.

 

   “What was your student doing beyond the walls?” Jingim asked.

 

   “Sleep escaped me,” Marco said, with suspicious quickness. “I thought a ride might clear my mind.”

 

   Jingim paused a moment, considering the Latin’s tone, and then reached for Marco’s stubbled chin.

 

   “So close to your throat,” he said with a slight prod under Marco’s trembling jaw. Then, an air-light trail down the foreigner’s long neck. “A few inches lower and the venom would have stilled your heart.” It was an unpleasant thought, and his tone soured. Marco’s cloudy eyes met his own, and Jingim felt the air thicken around him. He let his hand remain there a moment more, before lifting his fingers away from the flushing pale skin.

 

   “Tread carefully, Master Polo, or you will find yourself a more permanent sleep.” More talk of death with the Latin, but this time, a warning instead of a threat. Marco watched with grave seriousness as were serious as Jingim withdrew from the room.

 

   Marco was getting better at lying. Before, he couldn’t have fooled a child. Now, perhaps the aged healer believed that Marco was merely riding for the midnight air. But Hundred-Eyes surely heard the nervousness in his pupil’s voice. And Jingim saw right through Marco’s unsteady gaze.

 

_Latin, step carefully, you’re not as good a liar as you think you are. In this court, a foolish lie may be deadlier than any poison._

 

* * *

 

 

 

    And if that night, he thought of Marco’s bronze curls as he lay with Sorga, nobody had to know.

    Jingim held her afterward, stroked her hair, and listened to her soft whispers. It helped to ease his guilt. She slipped into sleep while Jingim watched the dancing light of the candle extinguish, mind churning.

                                                                                     

    He had felt similarly towards a boy, once, and it had terrified him. It was the soft sweet affection of youth; ethereal feelings that had no connection to the heady lust of adult longings. But it was toward a boy, and he was smart enough to know that favored sons didn’t pick the tiny white flowers that dotted the hillsides for other boys.

 

    And so all the flowers he picked mysteriously appeared on Ahmad’s bedroll. Each tiny bouquet quickly wilted, the skinny white petals curling up and scattering into the dust.  They were always chalked up to a serving girl, and by the time Ahmad and Jingim were adolescent, the white flowers had ceased to appear. With the passage of time, Jingim could laugh with Ahmad about his still mysterious admirer without a pang in his heart for his secretive childhood affection.

 

    When he had first lain with a woman, and performed as expected, it was the sky had opened up. He would not be some slighted, sonless prince, banished from the court for uncouth affections. He could carry out his duty with a woman, childish affections be dammed.

 

    And once this nervousness was gone, he could truly enjoy the company of lovely women. He almost laughed at his early trepidations. Jingim’s wives were gentle, beautiful, and a welcome respite from his other cares. His women were a welcome harbor in a sea of troubles.  

 

   And if he sometimes craved a change of pace, for the scuff and sweat of a man rather than the softness and gentleness of a woman, the craving passed in time.

 

* * *

 

   It isn’t until Jingim returns from the Song envoy that he hears of the return of Marco’s father, of the silkworms smuggled in hollowed sapling, and of Marco’s brief but demeaning imprisonment.

 

   During his celebration, Jingim feels aglow, awash in the sweet tide of his diplomatic victory. It is the first time in recent memory that he has won the approval of both his parents, his father roaring with laughter, his mother smiling wanly behind him. The court murmurs its adoration. Ahmad lays so much praise on him that it’s almost makes him blush.

 

   Marco watches from the side. He is distant, glowering still from the indignity of his ordeal. He doesn’t watch the entertainers, gaze flitting about, never settling. When the Latin’s gaze occasionally settles on him, Jingim allows himself to smile and laugh glowingly.

 

   He is the man of the hour, and allows himself to bask in its glamour while it lasts.

 

   Only once does Jingim meet Marco’s bright eyes. The connection is held only for a second, and then Marco lowers his gaze sharply, as if he had looked into the sun and seared his eyes with it’s light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Empress Chabi's probably thinking: "I knew my gay genes got passed down, I KNEW IT!". I figured that in such a situation, she would sympathize with her son.
> 
> I personally see Chabi as 100% lesbian. (evidence: we see her recoil from the Khan when he tries to bring her to bed, and of course, that one sex scene with Mei Lin. Her first line in the series is asking Marco where all the beautiful women are! ) I do think that she cares about her husband an her family. (I personally see Kublai and Chabi's marriage similarly to Jingim and Sorga's marriage, not passionate but supportive and amicable.) Of course, you may disagree if you wish.
> 
> More sexuality headcanons, while we're here... Jingim as a (still deeply internally closeted) bisexual. And Marco is a confused baby who finds many people pretty and doesn't quite to know what to do with that. 
> 
> Hundred-Eyes is either hella ace or fucked around a lot back in the day, with no in-between.


End file.
